Hellion (41 page)

“I would not mark your lovely skin,” he said soothingly. Then he stood up, reaching out for her. “Come! I will demonstrate. Do not be afraid. You are not like those poor wretches that get strung up in the hall every now and then for their disobedience.” He pulled her from the bed and drew her back into the alcove where the bench was located. Placing her facedown upon it this time, he quickly affixed the manacles.

“Please, my lord, I am afraid,” Belle told him.

“There is no need for it,” he assured her, pushing a hard bolster
beneath her belly so that her hips elevated themselves. “Even your church permits the occasional beating of a woman for disciplinary purposes. If I give you six strokes of my leather strap now, you will understand what is involved. It is unlikely, with a girl as intelligent as you, that I shall ever have to do it again. It is really better that we do this now instead of waiting until you disobey me, and anger me. If you angered me, I might give you twenty-four strokes of the strap.”

As he spoke he was moving about the alcove, and she could not move her head to see him from her position. Finally he came and stood by her head. In his hands he held a leather strap, several inches in width. The ends of the strap were divided into several narrow strands, each one of which contained several knots. “If you truly angered me, I would use the leather on you, but as I only wish to demonstrate that I am capable of punishing you, I shall use the hazel switch. You are a brave girl, I know, and so I do not want you to cry out, for six strokes are nothing. If you displease me with any display of cowardice, I shall add one stroke for each cry you make,” he warned her. “Tell me that you understand me, Belle.”

“Yes, my lord,” she whispered.

“Good!” he said, and then he moved away from her.

She felt his hand smoothing tenderly over her buttocks. “You have a bottom like a fine, ripe peach,” he remarked. And then he brought the switch down across the pale flesh. Isabelle swallowed back her urge to protest. The second and third blows were more forceful, and by the fourth she realized her flesh was tingling.

“You’re doing very well,” he complimented her, and laid the fifth blow more gently across her helpless flesh. “And six!” The last came hardest, as if to imprint itself on her memory.

“There, my precious,” he soothed her. “That was not really so bad, and you were very brave. Had this been a real punishment, I should have let you shriek your head off, but it was not.” He undid her bonds, and bringing her back to the bed, laid her facedown upon it, again propping her hips high.

She lay silently, tears pearling her cheeks, and then, to her shock, felt his member seeking between her thighs. Before she might protest, he had lodged himself within her. His hands grasped her hips in a strong grip as he ground himself into her burning flesh.

“You are simply too tempting this way,” he murmured into her ear, leaning forward over her prone form. “The heat from your pretty pink bottom is delicious, Belle. I may take to beating you on a regular basis just for the pure pleasure of it.” He began to pump her with vigor. “You are as ripe and sweet as a summer’s fruit, my precious!”

To her immense horror, Isabelle felt her traitorous body responding to his dark passion. “
No!
” she cried out in a desperate attempt to stop it. “
No!
” But he had taken her unawares, and there was no stopping the pleasure that began to swell within her. Together, this time, they attained the crest of their passion.

Afterward he smoothed an ointment across her sore flesh, soothing it. “You will never be disobedient, will you, Belle?” he said softly, cradling her against his chest. “No. You are far too intelligent, and you have learned from this little incident, have you not, my precious?”

“Yes, my lord, but I hate you for it!” she cried low.

He laughed, ruffling her cropped hair. “Nay, you do not.” Then, the episode concluded for him, he said, “I must really give you something to help your hair grow quickly. But for those fine breasts of yours, you still have the look of a lad about you.”

She was astounded by this change of subject, but then it was not his bottom that was still stinging from the blows he had administered to her. She would do whatever she had to do to avoid having to face that switch again. And then to have him mount her like a stallion put to a mare; aroused by the pain he had given her. Belle shuddered. His arms closed about her more tightly.

“There, my sweet Belle,” he cajoled her. “It is over now.”

Aye, Belle thought bitterly, it was over for him, but not for her. Again she silently berated herself for her folly in coming to La Citadelle. What had ever made her think she could rescue Hugh? But then, she had never anticipated that her disguise would be penetrated. For weeks she had managed to hoodwink everyone she and Lind had come into contact with that she was a lad; but none of them had been sorcerers. Isabelle hadn’t expected a sorcerer’s powers could extend to seeing into one’s soul. Although Blanche de Manneville had told her the d’ Bretagnes were a race of sorcerers and sorceresses, she had not thought someone as unimportant as a young falconer would attract their attention. That oversight was costing her dearly. Guy d’ Bretagne had, so easily it seemed, found her out. Now she was his prisoner, caught in a tightly woven enchantment and playing a very dangerous game.

As the days wore on, there was no doubt in her mind that she was bewitched. Each day, her captor would mix deliciously flavored drinks, adding different bits of herbs, or colored powders, or even flower petals that had been dried, to his liquid potions. He would serve them to her in exquisite vessels of gold and silver, studded with carved jewels. At first he had to coax her to partake, but eventually, her willpower seeming sapped, she drank willingly. Unlike her poor Hugh, she retained her memory, however.

And the lotions he prepared were also part of his power over her. Smooth and fragrant, he would rub them onto her body in generous amounts after having bathed her. No part of her body was spared. Some were merely to soften her skin and keep it supple. Others, however, were concocted as a means to her arousal. Once he had her chained spread-eagled to the wall of his chamber. He massaged her with a pale coral-colored cream, paying careful attention to her intimate parts, and within moments she was writhing with desire. Facing her, he watched with amusement, laughing as she cursed him, her passion burning into her, and unable to satisfy it.

“
I hate you!
” she screamed at him until her throat was raw.

Guy d’ Bretagne had finally released her, and commanded her to pleasure him. Belle desperately wanted to defy him, but his dark, violet gaze forced her compliance, and she obeyed, hating herself, but caught in the throes of his fierce and lustful enchantment, she could do naught but his bidding.

Because she was near hysterics afterward, he moved his hand before her eyes in mysterious fashion, and she fell into a deep sleep, awakening hours later, sore, and yet exhausted. Still, she had been happy to see him bringing her a plate of food, and equally happy to make love with him in the dark night hours that followed. Aye, she was enchanted even as her Hugh was, or else she would have surely killed Guy d’ Bretagne by now.

Her master was, it seemed, very pleased with her behavior. One day he took her into the small private room where he liked to fashion his creams and other magical potions.

“I shall teach you how to mix love potions, and the special creams I enjoy using,” he told her, and he smiled. “You are an intelligent wench, and if the time comes when you no longer amuse me, you will have another use to help pay for your keep, my beautiful Belle, but I cannot imagine such a time ever coming. Can you, my pet?
You are mine.
” He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Are you not, Belle?” His eyes bored into her very soul.

“I am yours,” she agreed softly.

He smiled at her then, pleased, and said, “I shall teach you to make a potion guaranteed to inflame the bodily lusts. We will begin by boiling some water. Watch everything I do, and next time I shall allow you to do it.” Ladling water from a bucket into a small black caldron, he affixed the kettle to a hook and swung it over the fire in the little fireplace in the corner of the private chamber.

No one was allowed in this room except a large orange male cat called Saffron, unless they were invited by Guy d’ Bretagne. “Saffron is the king of the castle,” Guy told her, laughing. “He has fathered more kittens than any cat I have
ever known. I suspect him of lapping up the potions that sometimes fall to the floor.”

He drew Belle over to a clean but worn wooden table, and handed her a small grater. “You will grate these almonds for me,” he said, handing her a small bowl of them. Then he turned away to busy himself, and she watched him with wide eyes, fascinated. He took down from a shelf two jars. Opening one, he spooned out a thick, dark, gold substance into a narrow-mouthed pitcher. Capping the jar and returning it to its place upon the shelf, he opened the other vessel. She could not see what was in it, but he added two pinches of the contents to the pitcher. “Are the almonds grated yet?” he asked her.

“Aye,” she answered, swearing softly as she nicked her knuckle.

“Give them to me.” And he mixed the grated nuts into the pitcher with the other two ingredients quite thoroughly. When the water was boiling, he began ladling it into the pitcher until the small vessel was filled. Again he mixed the contents completely. Then taking two narrow crystal goblets from a cabinet, he poured the warm golden liquid into them, handing her one. “Drink it down quickly!” he ordered her, quaffing his own portion.

Belle drank, and it was sweet, yet there was a sharp underlying taste to the potion that she could not quite place, although it was familiar. The liquid coursed through her veins, and she was suddenly aware of a tingling sensation that seemed to concentrate itself in her nether regions. She shifted nervously, and then, to her amazement, he opened his gown to reveal his manhood, rampant with desire. Wordlessly, he lifted her up, impaling her on it as she wrapped her legs about him and clung to him as he backed her up to the very same table she had been grating the almonds upon. He began to piston her with long, slow strokes of his mighty weapon, quickly bringing them to mutual satisfaction.

Setting her down at last, he noted, “ ’Tis not as strong as it should be.” Then he murmured some words over the remaining
liquid in the pitcher that she could not understand, his elegant hand making a graceful sweeping motion over the vessel. “There! That should do it. We shall give the remaining portion to Vivi and Hugh, and see what they think of it, eh, Belle?”

She nodded, and then asked him, “What is in the potion, my lord? Besides the almonds and the hot water, I mean.”

“I will tell you next time,” he promised her. “For now it is not necessary that you know. Not until I allow you to make it yourself. Did you enjoy its effects, my pet? I far more enjoy pleasing you than punishing you. Now, Vivi, she enjoys occasional pain. It seems to arouse her to extreme ardor. Hugh tells me he whips her with great regularity, and afterward she is wild with passion.” Guy caressed Belle’s hair, which, thanks to another of his potions, was growing longer and thicker with each passing day. “You did not take well to my hazel switch, did you, my beauty? You did not like it at all.”

“Nay,” Belle told him. “I did not, my lord.”

In retrospect, Belle thought, it had been a good thing that he had beaten her that morning. The memory kept her strongly in mind of how dangerous this man was, and of how her very life was held in his hands. She could do nothing to help Hugh until she could gain Guy’s full trust, and perhaps even his love, and get out of the confines of his apartments. She thought perhaps now that he was teaching her simple tasks in his magical chamber, she might be gaining his trust. Yet she remained fearful of Guy d’ Bretagne, and helpless in the face of his spells and the pleasure-pain tortures which he continued to inflict upon her. As for love, was he even capable of it? Isabelle did not know.

One day before Guy left Isabelle, he fastened a narrow strip of gilded leather about her hips. A single matching strap hung from the front of the girdle. To it was attached a small phallus shaped like a thumb. The strap was drawn down between her netherlips and the phallus inserted in her sheath. It was made of leather, and studded with tiny freshwater pearls.

Then he pulled her into his lap and began to play quite suggestively
with her breasts. Soon she could not help squirming against his knees. When she did, the phallus pressed against her, arousing her wickedly. Seeing the surprised look on her face, he laughed wickedly. “It is to remind you of your duty while you wait for me,” he told her.

“I am bored just waiting,” she told him daringly. “I can read.” She sat very still now, lest she be tortured again.

“In what language?” he asked, fascinated by this new knowledge of her.

“English and French,” she said.

“I will see you have manuscripts with which to amuse yourself,” he promised, and then left her.

He kept his promise, and Isabelle read each day when she was alone. Still, it was boring lying about naked, waiting for Guy d’ Bretagne to rejoin her.

Several weeks passed in this fashion. Then one day when Guy came back, he had with him a beautiful tunic dress and long skirts. He handed them to her. “You will join us in the Great Hall tonight,” he said.

“There are no undergarments,” she said.

“You do not need them. I have had the tunic dress lined in rabbit’s fur for warmth,” he explained with a small smile. “Are you not pleased that you are to join us?”

“Yes,” she answered him, kissing his mouth sweetly. “While I do enjoy my own company, my lord, the company of others can also be equally stimulating.”

The tunic was beautiful. Made of copper-colored silk, it was embroidered in copper metallic threads and sparkling golden gems she did not recognize. She had never seen so rich a garment, even at King Henry’s court. The high neckline was round, and the long sleeves jeweled at the cuffs. The simple soft wool skirts were dark green in color and lined in a soft silk sarcenet. When he had bathed her and dressed her, he took up a brush and slowly groomed her beautiful hair, which had by now grown back nearly to her shoulders.